Seconds
by whitereflections12
Summary: oneshot Post CRmovie When it came down to it, the irony was in the time.  Bond's thoughts sometime after Vesper's death.  Very angsty.  Rating for language.  R


Just a oneshot from Bond's perspective…getting inside his head after Vesper's death in Casino Royale. I wrote this the day after going to see the movie for the third time sometime last Feburary or March, but I just now got it typed up.

Hope you enjoy.

I don't own James Bond(damn!).

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When it came down to it, the irony of it was in the time. He took another swallow from the bottle, took down his chosen poison with an eagerness that would have belied his struggle had anyone been watching. His eyes cut to his watch, watched the second hand twitch its way around the frame, watched to see if it would show him the discrepancy he felt, he knew, had to be there. He tired of it quicker than he expected and he ripped the watch from his wrist, throwing it with vicious strength against the hotel room wall.

Seconds. Just a few bloody seconds. He relived them every time he closed his eyes, and he couldn't help but wonder if he would ever sleep in peace again. He could feel the bars in his hands, their unforgiving, unyielding strength as he shook them; feel her hands, her face, her lips across his fingers, the awful rush of water as she pulled away. He could see it, the look in her eyes, the way she reached for him at the end. That, that always woke him. Her hand, just out of reach, his own damned inadequacy as he failed to save her. She had needed him, reached for him, and he had failed her miserably. For his punishment, forced to watch her die before his eyes, still struggling futilely with those fateful bars.

He had watched her die now so many times he would have thought the pain should ease, something should fade, be it the urgency or his self hatred. He woke every time in a cold sweat, unbidden tears stinging his eyes and the taste of her name still on his lips. And all it had been was a few fucking seconds. Any sooner, _any_ sooner, had time passed any slower, he could have had her in his arms in time, could have saved her. A 00, the best of the best, and he couldn't even save the life of the woman he loved. He could still feel her lifeless body in his arms, the frantic movements of his own hands as he tried to breathe life into her, feel the pain in his chest so blinding, so intense it had provoked those last minute desperate prayers to a God he had never believed in that if He took his own life to give to her he'd be so grateful…

Not that it had worked, not that God had saved her. If there was a God in this world, he had hardly expected Him to answer the calls of an assassin. Even if it was for someone else. He could still taste her, that last desperate kiss that seemed more masochistic than anything else. He had known she would never respond but he couldn't prevent himself. He had to have the feel of her lips against his one last time. It hurt more than it helped. Nothing was the same, not even the way she tasted. Too much saltwater and too little Vesper. Yet another memory to stick in his mind and drive him insane.

He had held her then, wrapped her up in his arms and cradled her to his chest like he was comforting her instead of himself. Buried his face in her neck to hide from the stark clarity of it all, let his hot tears fall there against her skin where no one would ever see them. Blocked the world and everything except the two of them from his mind, as if by force of will he could give life to her again and make everything alright. He didn't know how long he had remained with her on the roof, but it was less than half as long as it felt.

And there it was, the glaring inconsistency. Each second was a year, each minute a lifetime in which breathing was the most difficult task and even the beat of his heart seemed to have come under conscious control. Seconds. Seconds had taken her life before they proceeded to take his soul. The first had come like lightning strike, the second with all the agony of being bled dry from a single wound. He knew, logically, that time was constant, a never changing river indifferent to the destruction it caused. But it was a thousand miles from his head to his heart where the difference seemed so real, and nothing he did could reconcile the two. Not that it mattered, really. No matter the logic of it, she was dead and that was all that mattered. That, and the fact that she had been everything. His love. His hope and his future. The only one who saw his soul, and his only reason to keep it alive…It was a fragile thing, his soul, and without her to nourish it he would let it die. He had no use for it anymore.

With a crash he hardly registered he threw the empty bottle against the wall. The vodka never helped, not really. It could not erase the past. It could only blur his present and ensure he cared nothing for the future. Worthless, but it was all he had left. Vodka, and a death wish. Combined with his loyalty to England he knew full well he was an enemy to be feared. He had always heard a man who cared nothing for his own life was more dangerous than any other. He had already been deadly dangerous. Perhaps now he was unstoppable. He would give his life for his country. The day could not come soon enough. God save the Queen. He could hope for that. He knew there was no way in heaven or hell that he could save himself.

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Reviews are better than Vodka martinis.


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